San Antonio daily light. [volume] (San Antonio, Tex.) 1886-1907, 1887-01-15

she ala not speak angrly, but rather
as one who quietly despared.
And have YOU neither sorrow nor
shame? Can you stand there and look
at me and not feel that il would have
been better for you to have died than
have deceived me as you have done"
Charley" she began, trembling, as
she spoke; but he interrupted her again.
II will not have you call me s0n' he
cried. "YOu are no wife of minel Only
answer me one question. How long has
this been going on? Speak truly"
Before ] ever knew YOU" she sobbed
more than three years"
You began young" he said, with
bitter sneer. All the worst passions of
his nature were aroused. He was mad
with wounded love and jealousy. snow
listen to me. You thought you were
doing clever thing when YOU deceived
me. You laughed in your sleeve to
think what fool and dupe / was.
From this moment you are nothing to
me. The May Brooke / loved and
wooed last summer is dead-or rather
she has never lived at all. There can
be no half measures for me. You have
deceived me. From the very beginning
you have wronged me with the cruellest
wrong, and will never look upon your
face again. This hour l will leave you.
You shall never deceive me again"
But, Charley" she cried frantically,
81 meant to tell you, darling; and I
thought you would forgive me thenl'
Men do not forgive that kind OF
thing" he said scornfully. There need
be no scene. If | remained with you, /
must either love you or hate you. For
II xxril 81,
yours | will not hate-sO | leave you.
You have a comfortable home here; re-
main in it; you will not miss me. | can
live the rest of my life alone. At least,
if have been fool, there was some
excuse for my folly"
Charley" she cried. "you cannot
leave me so! l will follow you. You
must forgive me! Indeed-indeed I
will never do it againl'
Il should think not. ;" he said, with a
short bitter laugh. ''One such affair is
quite enough for lifetime. Don't re-
peat the mistake. Don't come near mel
will not forgive you'll cannotl'
So he passed out. and left her kneel-
ing, her hands outStretched to him, her
white imploring face covered with tears
out, he did not care whither-he was
mad with the pain of his grief-any-
where where he might forget-where
his past life might fall from him and
be Orgotten-anywhere where he might
forget the beautiful false face of the
woman who had deceived him.
The noise of the city surged in his
ears; people stood to gaze after him,
and wondered at his wild and desperate
looks. He had no plan for the future.
The sky above his head seemed of blood
red, the people who passed him by like
unreal phantOms; he walked ON, longing
only to escape.
1t was the whistle Of locomotive
that first brought him to standstill.
He found himself close to Euston
Square. Here was way of escape.
H would go away, he thought-away
frOa London, where he had lived the
life of dupe and a fool, away to some
place where the voice and the face of
the woman he had loved could not fol-
low him.
Trains for Crewe, Chester" &C.,
were the first words that he saw, and he
went into the boOking-office to ask for
a ticket for Crewe. The clerk who gave
it to him wondered at his face; the
porters watched him curiously as he
walked up and down the platform. He
did not think it strange that.the guard
came once or twice TO the carriage door
to see chat all WIS right. He had but
one thought. He was going to escape.
The train began to move, but his
thoughts went with it. He had meant
to leave them behind; and here they
were, burning, vivid, scOrChing his
heart and his brain. The train few
past quiet green fields and hOmesteads,
yet everywhere in letters of fire he saw
again the fatal letter.
He knew nothing of time or how 1t
ped. Crewe came at last, and he had
confused recollection of standing on
the platform, with people going and
coming around him;and then the famil-
lar face of an old college-friend, Harry
Archer of Leas, smiled upon him and
bade him welcome to old England. He
did not remember how he told his friend
that he had been in England many
months, and that he felt very i'll, or how
he suddenly tainted as he stood trying
to speak as if nothing unusual had hap
pened. Harry Archer, like the good
Samaritan that he was, helped to raise
his old friend, and took him home in
his carriage, and nurSed him through
long illness that brought him to the
brink of the grave.
1t was long before he remembered all
this, and then he was lying in pretty
little room in Harry's house, and Har-
rvs wife was standing beside him, the
tears shining in her bright eyes-she
was 50 pleased to see him himself again.